Downtime

Monday: Christopher Columbus was a terrible person, and Columbus Day is a stupid, stupid holiday. But after years of 1099 contracting, I am grateful for any paid day off. I didn't do any work today. This does not count. Nor does the laundry.

Some of my friends have been urging me and other friends to do less. Reject chronic busy-ness, reject overwork and overscheduling, and just be. "You're a human being, not a human doing," they say. "You're a person, not a productivity machine." "You're allowed to exist without having anything to show for it."  All true, I suppose, but that's not how I live my life. It's not how I roll. Like Toad, I'm a veritable slave to my to-do lists; and when I'm not doing something, I worry that I should be.

But I didn't do any work today. I went shopping and bought some new things. I went for a walk and waved to Running Lady. I took a nap while my kids watched "The Office" on Netflix. I did some housework. I read a book. It was delightful.

Tuesday: The best thing about an officially sanctioned weekday off is that no one else worked, either; so you're not behind. Everything was just as I left it on Friday. If not for the password reset debacle, it would have been a good day.

But there was a password reset debacle, and I have only myself to blame for it. Last week, I had to reset my password for the timecard system. Yes, that timecard system. I was sad that I had to reset the password, because first of all I hate resetting a password like I hate rodents and invasive medical procedures. And because my old password was awesome, comprising a sharply worded insult to the company that invented the timecard system and the required capital letter, number, and special character. It made me laugh every time I logged in, and that's worth something.

But I had to change it. And I decided to outdo myself and make an even funnier password. And so I did. I created a funny funny password, and I confirmed the funny password, and I completed the captcha, chortling with glee the whole time. What could have gone wrong? What could I have possibly have forgotten?

Yes, the super-creative password is the Internet version of hiding something so well that you'll never ever find it. I played chicken with the log-in screen, refusing to click on the stupid stupid "forgot your password?" link, knowing all the time that it would lock me out after too many unsuccessful attempts. And I made too many unsuccessful attempts, and it locked me out. And that was the end of that.

So after the system administrator bailed me out of Internet jail, I created a new password. And I wrote it down.

Which is good. Because it's hilarious.

*****

Thursday: I didn't actually skip a day here; I just wrote something that is becoming a little too long to be just a daily journal entry, so I'll expand on it a bit and post it next week. I'm sure you're all agog waiting to read it.  

Time's up

Sunday: I was going to live-blog the Golden Globes, but then I got bored. Because it was boring. So so so boring. Boring and predictable. Not only did I predict the hours of insufferable, preachy identity politics (not that this took any special psychic powers) but I also predicted the very predictable post-show social media backlash.  Seth Meyers was funny, and I was happy to see wins for Rachel Brosnahan and Sam Rockwell and Elisabeth Moss (who also wore my favorite dress of the night), but I couldn't watch the rest of it. Because I was SO BORED.

So I missed Oprah's speech, and I haven't gotten around to watching it. Another thing that I predicted (again, this didn't require a sixth sense, nor even a fifth one) was the proliferation of Oprah 2020 enthusiasm. I don't mind Oprah. I'm not a particular fan, but I certainly admire what she has accomplished, especially coming as she did from virtually nothing. And she'd be better than Trump, of course, but so would I, and I'm an idiot.

I think that what bothers me about the Oprah groundswell is that people keep expecting politicians to be saviors, and when the politicians fail, they expect celebrities to do the job. And they can't do it either, because someone already did.

Monday: I have been without a day planner for a full week of 2018, which means that I don't have a to-do list, which means that I don't know what to do.

I ordered a planner, which came right after Christmas, but it wasn't quite right. I thought about going back to my beloved Filofax, but then I decided to order another of a pocket planner that I had in 2015 (which is actually also pictured in the Filofax post from 2014, rereading which has prompted me to ask myself why I wrote an 800-word illustrated post about day planners, but that's a question for another day).

Wednesday: My new day planner arrived in the mail, and not a moment too soon. It's exactly the same one that I had in 2015, as I'd hoped. The second week of a new year without any sort of calendar, or agenda, or to-do list, and my life was in shambles. Another day, and the whole operation would have fallen apart.

Thursday: Just for fun, I decided to get the worst haircut that I have ever had in my entire life. Not so much too short, just crazy angles and layers and choppy ends that yielded the overall look of a crazy woman who impulsively cuts her own hair, And not necessarily with scissors.

Friday: I spent 25 minutes with a flatiron this morning, trying to organize and subdue my hair, but to no avail. 25 minutes might not seem like much, but I'm accustomed to a five- to seven-minute hairstyling routine. 25 minutes puts a serious dent in my day. I mean, if I have to spend 25 minutes a day fixing my hair, then when will I have time to blog about nothing? It's an issue.

My husband texted me later in the day, to tell me that he felt a bit flu-ish. I texted back:

I'm sorry to hear that. But I have a shit show growing out of my head. There are worse things than flu.

Though I was loath to let anyone wielding scissors near my head again, I made an emergency hair-fixing appointment for Friday night. The hairstylist looked at my hair with a mixture of puzzlement and dismay. "Wait," she said, "a hairdresser did this?"

"Right?" I said. "I know that you're thinking that I must have cut it myself, but I promise you that I paid someone actual money to do this to me." My hair was horrifying, but validation is always satisfying.

"Hmm," she said. "Well, I can give you a really good haircut, but it will be much shorter than you're probably used to. Or I can just clean this up as best I can. It won't be perfect, but you'll be able to live with it."

I opted for Plan B. It's not perfect, but I can live with it.

Saturday: My house is full of teenagers, only two of whom live here. It's loud, so I'm holed up in a bedroom, reading and writing and watching "Breaking Bad" reruns.  I emerge every so often, just to prevent breakdown of law and order.

Sunday: I went with friends to see "Lady Bird," which I loved; except that we had to sit in the front row, which I hated. The front-row seats, which were the only ones available, cost exactly the same as the seats from which you can actually see the screen, which doesn't seem fair to me. It's an artsy theater, which prides itself on offering a superior movie experience, so later on, I sent them a sharply worded email, just like my grandmother would do, if she knew how to use a computer. I don't expect them to do anything, but I'll probably troll them via email for a few weeks, just for fun. 

Hmm. Maybe I should spend more time on my hair.

Reading and writing

It's 8:30 on Tuesday night, and I'm already in my pajamas, which is quite unusual for me. I'm sick. Nothing life-threatening, just an ugly cold, but I feel horrible.

I used to be able to say, truthfully, that I never got sick. Because I used to never get sick. My immune system was pure cast iron. Or titanium. Whatever is more impenetrable. But this is the fourth time I've been sick this year. Apparently, my immune system is now made of something squishy or porous or otherwise not akin to titanium. It's more like a sieve, or a butterfly net. I'm a runny-nose mouth-breathing mess. I think I'll go to bed (after Rachel Maddow.)

*****
So it's Friday night now. What with the round of one damn thing after another that constitutes my life (not original--P.G. Wodehouse, I think), I don't even remember most of the rest of the week. I'm not as sick as I was, but not 100% yet either. One son is at a high school football game (his school is losing 49-6), and the other son and I are watching the Houston Astros beating the Los Angeles Dodgers in Game 3 of the World Series. We're rooting for Houston. We love Jose Altuve, and Houston needs a win.

My older son, now a junior in high school, is looking at colleges. He's never been a particularly good student, but he started to work harder last year, finishing the year with a 3.5 GPA, and he's working very hard this year, too, though his math and science grades are not good. He might start at the local community college, but he might start at a four-year university. Anyway, he's looking at possibilities. He's actually reading the letters he's starting to receive. We'll schedule visits next spring, because that's what people do.

A few weeks ago, I spent Sunday afternoon at a college admissions seminar for parents of students with learning disabilities. It was not especially helpful (apparently, grades are important; and colleges also consider extracurricular activities in admissions decisions). In my usual vague and scattered way of gathering information, I managed to learn that November through April of next year will be the critical window of time during which forms will be submitted, and checks will be written, and decisions will be made.  That's plenty of time, so we'll figure it out.

*****
I joke sometimes about adult ADD, but that doesn't mean that I don't think it's a real thing, because I do and it is and I have it. It's only through living with my son for 16 years that I was able to figure this out. He's lucky that it's a recognized thing now, and that he's been able to learn how to manage it when he's young. I manage it by doing 20 things at a time, and somehow getting them all done, eventually.

This doesn't always work. Yesterday, I sat with the art director at my company, watching video footage that we need to edit into a two-minute video (and don't get me started on how we're going to get that done on time, but that's a story for another day). I promised that I'd transcribe my notes and send them to him as soon as I got back to my desk.

It would be not quite accurate to say that I forgot all about it five minutes later, because I think that I forgot about it before the words were even out of my mouth. I went back to my desk and finished writing a newsletter, and then wrote some proposal stuff, and then skipped blithely home, without another thought about the video. Not another thought. It was as if the whole afternoon hadn't happened.

When I did finally remember the video, and the notes, it was about 4 o'clock this morning. I was going to get up and just write the notes right away, but I decided to go back to sleep and do in the morning (because 4 o'clock in the morning is the middle of the night). And I did. And that was the end of that.

But it doesn't always end well. I'm pretty sure, for example, that I was supposed to go to the doctor's last week, but I didn't write it down, and couldn't remember for sure if it was that week or the next (meaning the coming week) and no one called me, so I didn't go. I'll find out, I suppose. The forgetting of the things and the appointments is becoming more of a problem. I have to write things down, and set reminders on my phone for everything. And I often forget to do either. And so I forget to do the thing that I would have remembered had I written it down.

*****

Well, that could go on all day. It's Sunday now, and the pointless rambling has to come to an end at some point. Several weeks ago, I finally finished reading The Crisis Years, and I also read Martha Moody's Best Friends. I had never heard of her, but I liked the book. I don't have much other than that to say about it, other than than that the protagonist, a doctor (like Moody herself), realizes at some point during her mid 40s that she is just then beginning to understand life and how to live properly. As someone who finished college at age 48 (summa cum laude, but still), I found this idea very reassuring.

Right now, I'm reading This is NPR: The First Forty Years, which I'll finish in a day or so. Fortunately, I have lots of other things to read. I went to the library book sale (a semi-annual favorite thing to do) yesterday, and bought $5 worth of books, which in library book sale terms, is a shitload of books. List to follow.

It doesn't seem a year ago to this very day

I love movies, as anyone who has read this blog probably knows. I don't go to movie theaters that often, though; and when I do, it's usually weeks after the movie opens. In fact, I often don't even hear about movies until their theatrical runs are almost over. Who knows what movie lovers did before TV and Netflix.

Because I don't usually see movies when they're new in theaters, I also don't usually notice trailers. Occasionally, though, I see a trailer that makes me really really want to see the movie. In 2015, my kids made me stop what I was doing to watch each of the "Force Awakens" trailers as they were released. I didn't mind, because I love Star Wars. And for a long-time Star Wars fan, there was nothing better than seeing Harrison Ford smile and say, "Chewy. We're home." We saw "The Force Awakens" a week after it was released.

Now, I'm almost Star Wars-level excited about a new movie.  I can't believe that it has taken this long, but someone has finally made a movie about the epic 1973 tennis match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs. The movie is, of course, titled "Battle of the Sexes," and the trailer soundtrack is Elton John's "Love Lies Bleeding," which is 1973 itself, set to music.

*****

This is, believe it or not, the swimming pool at Kendrick Recreation Center.
You can't see the tennis courts, but they're behind the pool and to the left.
My kids and their swim team friends don't believe my stories about swimming
in shifts because the pool was so crowded during hot Philadelphia summers. 

I was eight years old in 1973, and I really loved tennis. I wasn't good at it--I didn’t have the necessary speed or coordination. It didn’t matter, though, because I still loved to play. I loved hitting a ball against the brick wall down the street from my house. I loved playing on the summer team at the Kendrick Recreation Center and in the juniors tournaments in Fairmount Park (during which I was usually eliminated in the first round). I loved my Wilson Chris Evert racket (wood!) that I’d gotten as a Christmas present. And I LOVED the women’s tennis tour.

I was kind of a girly girl. Not a cheerleader or a pageant aspirant type, but not what anyone would, at that time, have called a “tomboy.” (I hate that word.) I liked clothes, I worried about my hair, and I wanted my ears pierced, which my mother would not allow until I was in high school. I admired stylish, beautiful Chris Evert, with her shining blond ponytail and diamond bracelets sparkling on tanned arms. But Billie Jean King was my favorite. She was different from the other women on the tennis tour. She wasn’t elegant or fashionable or regal. But she was radiant and fierce, and I thought (and still think) that she was beautiful.

*****

I grew up in a rowhouse in a blue-collar Philadelphia neighborhood, and attended a parish school with all of the other children of secretaries and sheet metal workers. I’m not sure that I or any of my friends would even have noticed tennis had it not been for Billie Jean and Arthur Ashe, who tried to bring tennis out of the country club and into the public parks. But as much as Billie Jean did to democratize tennis, she did even more for women's equality. She pioneered the then-radical notion that female athletes should make the same money as male athletes. How obvious does it seem today that the men’s and women’s champions at Wimbledon or the US Open should earn the same prize money? It wasn’t even remotely obvious in 1973. It was near-revolutionary.

The Battle of the Sexes was silly and show-businessy, but it was still a landmark event for women’s sports, and Billie Jean was a heroine. At that time (even more than now), women who spoke out for simple fairness and equality for women were often mocked and derided as "women's libbers" or worse. Lots of women were afraid of that kind of mockery--in fact, lots of women still are. They'd rather endure sexual harassment and inequality than have men dismiss them shrill or unattractive. But Billie Jean was fearless. Because she stood up for women's rights, she faced relentless scorn, and not just from Riggs. Like most eight-year-olds, I believed that life should be fair, and I was perpetually outraged by sexism in general, and by the over-the-top chauvinism of Riggs in particular. My parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and siblings were all heartily sick of me and Billie Jean and Bobby Riggs by the time the whole thing ended in a decisive victory for Billie Jean.

*****

1973 was a pretty big news year. I paid attention to current events more than most eight-year-olds did, so I knew about the oil embargo, and Vietnam, which was still raging; and the growing Watergate scandal. War and scandal and economic crises meant nothing, though, compared to Billie Jean King shutting Bobby Riggs up, even for five minutes. It felt like a victory not just for women, but for little inner-city working class school girls, too. Billie Jean, who also came from a working-class family, showed girls like me that things were possible, even likely, no matter where you lived, or who your parents were, or whether or not you had the right hair or clothes. My friends and I couldn’t really aspire to Chris Evert’s cool elegance and beauty, but we could all aspire to be like Billie Jean. She looked like our older sisters and cousins, and if we worked hard, we could be like her. We could be fearless, and strong, and really good at something. We could kick ass and take names and still look cute in a tennis dress.

*****

I'm not eight years old anymore, so I know that Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs were both complicated and imperfect people. In fact, there have long been rumors that Riggs threw the match, in exchange for forgiveness of his Mafia-held gambling debts. He and Billie Jean were actually friends, and they remained friends until Riggs died of cancer in 1995.  As an eight-year-old girl who liked a good old-fashioned to-the-death blood feud between good and evil, I would have been appalled to know that Billie Jean King actually liked Riggs, who was pure evil as far as I was concerned. Now, of course, I love Billie Jean even more for her friendship with crazy, loud-mouthed, flamboyant Bobby Riggs, who probably wasn't as much of a chauvinist as he pretended to be for the cameras. Even today, I can think of lots of worse sexists than Bobby Riggs. Not mentioning any names, of course.

*****
The summer of 2017 will probably feel a lot like the summer of 1973. My kids are much older than I was in 1973, but they're still young enough to believe that life should always be fair and that the good guys should always win. Twenty-five, or maybe 35 years from now, movies will be made about the cultural and political earthquakes of their youth, and they'll tell their children what they remember, and what it all meant to them.  And they'll see a trailer, and hear a song, and they'll say "OH MY GOD! THEY FINALLY MADE A MOVIE!" I hope so, at least. 

Sic transit gloria

What we have here is a total breakdown of law and order. It's Monday, and I haven't even MADE a to-do list yet. Now, I'm debating whether or not to even bother. I just finished a chore that I had particularly dreaded, and didn't even have the fun of crossing it off my list, because I don't have a list. TOTAL BREAKDOWN! Civilization is dead.

Why didn't I make a list? I'm sure that's what you're wondering. Well, I'm glad you asked. I didn't make a list because the list would have been so long that I couldn't even stand to think about it. This time of year, which already induces daily panic attacks for different reasons altogether, is also extremely busy. Yes, I know that's tiresome. You can't swing a cat without hitting some suburban mother who thinks she's the busiest person in the world.  Maybe you're one of those people who wouldn't swing a cat under any circumstances. It takes all kinds, I suppose. But I really am a little busy. A full-time job, three volunteer jobs, and a house that's not going to compulsively clean itself leave little time for list-making and blogging about nothing.

Why do I have three volunteer jobs? I'm glad you asked that, too. It's because I'm an idiot.

*****
It's Tuesday. I finally wrote a to-do list, because I can't seem to breathe without one. Then, in a distinct violation of the to-do list end user license agreement, I wrote down a task that I had already finished, and then crossed it off. I'm pretty sure that I got nailed by a red light camera on my way home from work, too. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe just and deserved retribution for my unethical to-do list practices. I needed a red light camera ticket anyway; that is, if I want to make a Rosary out of my camera-issued traffic tickets, using speeding tickets as Hail Mary beads and red light tickets for the Our Fathers. I'll be almost two decades in after this latest ticket arrives in my mailbox. I got your Sorrowful Mysteries, right here.

And now I'm going to Hell, too. Damn it.

Or maybe not. I might have redeemed myself. I teach 8th grade catechism. Did I mention that? It's one of my volunteer jobs. I like 8th graders; I like adolescents in general. This group, however, is a little challenging, and one girl in particular can be very challenging. Often disruptive and occasionally disrespectful, she is also very bright and full of fun. It's hard not to like her.

This girl obviously likes one of the boys in the class, who obviously likes her in return. He is, I have learned (because people tell me stuff), one of the popular boys at the middle school that they both attend, and because the girl is not conventionally pretty, I think that his obvious attraction to her confuses him. He doesn't understand yet that he might not ever meet another girl as lively and fearless as she is.

But how does the redemption come in? Again, I'm glad you asked. When she came into class last night, I said hello, as I always do, and told her that I liked her hoodie. She smiled happily and said "Thanks! It's my favorite thing right now!" And that's when I decided not to tell her the whole truth, which is that I, her 51-year-old catechism teacher, have the same hoodie. That should be ten years off my purgatory sentence, at least.

"OMG! Twinsies! Wear it again next Tuesday--I'll totally wear mine, too!"

*****

Wednesday. I left work early today for a doctor's appointment. It was weird to be at large at 3:30 in the afternoon.

After the doctor, I went grocery shopping. My husband called me as I was loading the groceries into the back of my car. As usual, he said "Safeway? You're at Safeway again? Didn't you just go to Safeway?" And as usual, I wondered how this could possibly be cause for questioning, because he and I both live with the same two teenage boys who eat is if it's their job, as if it's the actual profession for which they studied and trained. Blissfully unaware that the food that my sons consume in vast quantities will not replenish itself, he persists in asking me why I must return to the store, when I was just there.

My husband is a police detective, and speaking of vast quantities of food, he interviewed a crime victim today whose girlfriend is a competitive eater. As the man told my husband, this woman came in second in a recent competition to the woman who defeated Kobayashi. And so speaking of questions, this prompted several:

1. Competitive eating. Why? Why does this exist?
2. Why did I not need to ask "Who's Kobayashi?" Why did I know who he is?
3. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? Oh my God.

*****
Friday. Yes, I skipped Thursday. Well, except for one thing. Apparently, the rules no longer apply, and hockey players can now just throw their bodies onto the puck as if it was a football. Maybe they can just kick it into the net, now, too. Or toss it in, like a basketball. It's a damn free-for-all. Anything goes.

I'm home sick today. I can't stand being sick. But I did get two watch two episodes of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and one of them featured Rhoda's mother, played by the brilliant Nancy Walker.  There's always a silver lining.

*****

I was flipping channels one night last week (yeah, I know--too busy to make a list, but not too busy to watch TV), and even though I've seen it a dozen times, I was delighted to find that "Rushmore" was on HBO (we had a free preview).

"Rushmore" is one of a small group of movies that I'll watch whenever they're on. These movies don't have to be good (for example, "The American President" and "Stepmom" are both really terrible movies that I can't seem to look away from when they're on) but "Rushmore" is really good. In fact, it's as good as movies get. There are movies that make me laugh really hard, and movies that make me cry, but there are only a small handful that make me both laugh and cry, over and over again. I'll laugh my head off every time Jason Schwartzman sneers "oh are they?" at clueless Luke Wilson, as Bill Murray nearly spits out his drink. And I'll cry happy happy tears every time Max offers his punctuality award to Herman, and then finally introduces him to his dad (the barber and not the neurosurgeon). A really good day for me is a day when I have an opportunity to say "Oh yeah? Well you tell that mick that he just made my list of things to do." I'm from an Irish-Catholic family, so that happens more often than you might think.

*****
Saturday: I don't have the strep that I thought I had, but I do have bronchitis, the cure for which is apparently nothing. The sun came out and I feel capable of doing something other than lying down, so I guess I'm getting better.  My list is about 75% crossed off, and I don't care (that much) if I finish it or not. I'll start over again on Monday.

Current events

This has become a Friday night routine. I tentatively approach a thing that resembles an idea for a post, and then I circle it for a while, poking it with a stick, to see if it tries to bite me or anything. And then I just write about whatever nonsense pops into my head. Like a week in review.  Yes, that's it!  Week in review! Why didn't I think of that before?

*****

Monday: Sadly, Amy Krouse Rosenthal died on Monday, after a long illness. I wrote about her Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life on my 2016 book list. I had no idea that she was sick (or that she had written children's books) until the New York Times published her "You May Want to Marry My Husband" essay on March 3.  She was a great writer and, obviously and more importantly, a great person.
Monday night: A tense evening as the heavily hyped forecast of snow appeared for a while to have been mistaken (or a hoax). The snow finally began to fall, prompting an early snow day call from the school district--the first one this winter. All-out Lord of the Flies rebellion: Narrowly averted. 

Tuesday: Snow day. 

Tuesday night: You know, Rachel, I turned off a hockey game to watch that, nearly sparking an another potential uprising. These are revolutionary times at my house. I'm not sure that "Donald Trump paid some taxes in 2005" was quite the truth-to-power Watergate-level scoop that we all hoped for.  PS--I think Trump leaked the return himself. 

Wednesday: I don't even remember.  It was four days ago! Oh wait, I remember.  I worked from home on Tuesday.  Snow and whatnot. So I sent myself some files, because my work computer is huge and unwieldy, and no matter how many times I readjust my hands on the keyboard, I can't type on the thing.  I worked like a madwoman all day.  Then, on Wednesday morning, I got to my desk and realized that I didn't have the computer that I had used on Tuesday, and that I had forgotten to email the file back to myself. Kind of a problem, because it was kind of an important thing with kind of a hard, immovable, drop-dead, not one minute late deadline.  Something of a dilemma.

All's well that ends well. My husband was on the late shift this week, and being home, he was able to email the file to me.  Then, I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, only to realize that I'd left my wallet at home, too. At least I hadn't actually shopped yet. Because I'd have been SO MAD.

Thursday:  A long work day, but I didn't mind.  The Friday deadline still looming, I stayed at my desk until 6:30, and then came home and worked until a little after 10.

Friday: Deadline met.

Saturday: I hate to shop, as I mentioned here.  The benefit of working full-time is that I can afford to shop; the disadvantage, of course, is that I don't have time to shop.  Or rather, I do have time, but my time is limited, and shopping is my very least favorite way to spend it.  So I buy clothes online. And then I wear them, and hate them, and end up with a pile of nearly new stuff that languishes in my closet, while I tear my hair out every morning because I have nothing to wear.

But wait.  We're not talking about every morning.  We're talking about today. I went shopping, in a real store, where I tried some things on, and even bought a few items. Or articles.  We'll see what happens. That was the least fun thing that I did all week.  Note that this was a week that included floor mopping, snow shoveling, tax paying, and insomnia, so do the proverbial math.

*****
It's still Saturday, a few hours later.  Do you know what's happening right now? My son, who is 15  years and 9 months old today, is watching the Maryland Motor Vehicles Administration's how to get your driver's license video. No matter what time it is, it's always later than you think. Or later than I think, anyway.

And speaking of math? 100 Concepts is veering off the rails into pure ridiculousness .  Now I'm supposed to believe that there's such a thing as a three-dimensional one-sided shape. Fiction, I tell you.

Early in the evening, we went to our favorite neighborhood Mexican restaurant, with this boy and his mother (my sister-in-law) and his baby sister, who slept through the entire meal. The hostess was the senior co-captain of my son's high school swim team, and as high school kids often do when they see each other in non-school settings, they pretended that they didn't know each other.  Perhaps my son, who had ridden with my sister-in-law so that he could help with the children, was embarrassed to be seen carrying a sleeping infant in a forty-pound carrier.  Perhaps the girl, who is normally rather stylish, was embarrassed to be seen in her work uniform of khaki pants and a polo shirt.

I'm glad I'm not in high school anymore. Because it would be awkward to be the teenage mother of two teenage boys.

*****
It's Sunday morning now. I'm the only person awake, and I'm watching "Stranger than Fiction," a movie that I really love. I might like Will Ferrell even better in dramatic roles than in comedies. His "Stranger than Fiction's" character's favorite is work, not smiling. And Emma Thompson, Queen Latifah, and Maggie Gyllenhaal (sp?) are great as they always are.  It's good to be up early.

Did you not get the work/smiling reference?  Then go and watch "Elf," right away.

After Mass, I'll be attending a Lularoe home boutique show with some friends. No good will come of this, I promise you. With money in my pocket and the encouragement of well-meaning but misguided friends (both of whom are teachers, which means that actual toddler clothing is acceptable work attire for them), I'll end up with a pile of stretchy polka-dotted sack dresses, peacock-feather printed leggings, and a floppy hat.  With the right pair of Birkenstocks, I can show up at my job as a technical writer at a federal government contractor looking like a jewelry vendor at Lollapalooza, circa 1994.

Maybe I should leave my wallet at home.

I look ridiculous? You're wearing
cupcake-patterned
 leggings. Dumb ass. 

Later, I'm making chicken for dinner, using a video recipe recommended by another friend. The recipe involves a chicken and a Bundt pan, and like every other Internet chicken recipe, it suggests an insanely optimistic cooking time. (Hey!  That was exactly a year ago!) A food writer who believes that a whole chicken stuffed into a Bundt pan and surrounded by lemons and vegetables can go into a 425 degree oven and then come out ready to eat just 55 minutes later has obviously never cooked a chicken, but the friend who recommended the recipe is usually a dependable source of household and cooking advice. Only one way to find out.  Maybe I'll post a cooking diary next week. Don't say you weren't warned.

Bravely facing the applause

Lent: 3 days (almost) down.  400 to go. Sigh.

*****

I don't write about pop culture very often. I wrote about the Oscars two years ago, here, and one other time on my old blog--2008, maybe.  Most pop culture bloggers would think it necessary to post an Oscar recap sometime within 24 hours of the actual event, but I just don't roll that way.

I was kind of dreading the telecast; in fact, I almost didn't watch it at all.  Anyone who's been here for five minutes knows how I feel about the 45th President, and I'm also not one of those people who thinks that celebrities shouldn't express political opinions.  I'm just getting so kill-me-now bored with all of Hollywood, and the entire Internet, falling all over themselves to be the biggest of all resisters.  Newsflash: It doesn't take that much courage to stand in front of an auditorium containing the whole entertainment industry, and express your dislike of Donald Trump.  But to my surprise, the stick-it-to-the-man Trump outrage and tedious identity politics were more subdued than usual.  And the show, even without Lady Gaga, was very good.

Highlights:

• Justin Timberlake, in possibly my favorite-ever Oscar opening number.  There's nothing I didn't love about this performance. 
• Jimmy Kimmel, to my great surprise. The Meryl Streep and Matt Damon roasts were hilarious ("Chinese ponytail movie" killed me), and the tour bus visit, though possibly not his idea, was brilliantly executed and so much fun to watch. 
• Sara Bareilles, to my even greater surprise. I'm not a fan of her singing or songwriting, but I loved that performance. In fact, all of the musical performances were very good. 
• Viola Davis!  Finally!  I believe every word that she says on screen, and every look, and every gesture. I'm so happy to see her brilliance recognized. 

Not so highlights:

• Anousheh Ansari reading Asghar Farhadi's statement after the Iranian filmmaker won the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar for "The Salesman." I hate almost everything that Donald Trump has said and done since January 20, especially the travel ban (both 1.0 and 2.0.) And of course, Mr. Farhadi has every right to say whatever he thinks, either himself or through his representative. But how is it possible that no one in the room recognized the irony of a human rights scolding coming from an Iranian?  Did no one who applauded Ansari's speech consider the welcome that many Hollywood people would receive in the Islamic Republic?  At the risk of sounding xenophobic, I'll just point out that if you're an LGBT person in Iran, uncooperative bakeries and florists are the very least of your worries.  And for women in that country, the term "slut shaming" takes on an entirely new meaning. 
• Denzel?  Kind of a jerk.  He seemed annoyed at the tourists, and would it have been so hard for him to crack a smile at Casey Affleck when Affleck acknowledged him from the stage? I'm not a Casey Affleck fan either, but that was a rather gracious gesture, and Washington didn't give him an inch. Maybe he's just getting crusty with age. 
• I'm glad I don't work at PWC.  Well, I was already glad that I don't work at PWC, but now I'm REALLY glad.  They had one job, as the hashtag goes.  

At some point, I'll comment on the latest Trump scandal. With any luck, he'll have already resigned by the time I get around to it, making yet another post irrelevant.

*****
4 days down, 399 to go. 

I actually love spunk

The 70s were a hopeful and optimistic time to be a little girl. Lots of things were possible. You could do anything--everyone said so. You could be an athlete, like Billie Jean King or Chris Evert. You could be a lawyer, or a politician. You could be a doctor or a businesswoman.  The world was a wide-open place.

I was a vague, bookish little girl, so I didn't have any one particular ambition. I imagined all sorts of things.  In most of my daydreams, though, I was successful, in some glamorous but undefined career. I imagined a life in which I dressed fabulously, drove my own car, and ate grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries (and sipped Coke in a glass, with ice) in restaurants any time I wanted.

I was about 6 years old when "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" first aired (you knew where this was going, didn't you?) My mother and grandmother watched the show faithfully, and I watched with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor and wearing a flower-patterned quilted bathrobe that buttoned all the way down the front.  I didn't get most of the jokes, and I didn't realize at the time that any ground was being broken. I just loved Mary Richards, and I wanted to be like her when I grew up. I wanted to be smart and nice and pretty and funny and independent. I wanted a cute little apartment and a cute little car and an important job with a typewriter and a phone. And I wanted a best friend just like Rhoda.

So much has been written and said about Mary Tyler Moore and the show, especially since Mary's death on Wednesday.  Most of what I've read and heard has focused on her pioneering portrayal of women in the workplace and in the world. This is right and proper, and I'm happy to have seen so many moving tributes to MTM by women journalists and broadcasters, including Andrea Mitchell and Oprah Winfrey. Mary Richards was a pioneer.  And to little girls like me, she was better than any Barbie doll or Disney princess.

*****
So life happens, and most of mine up to now hasn't even vaguely resembled Mary Richards's.  That's OK.  Most of it has been better, despite my periodic bouts with depression. I was unable to sleep one night during one such period in my late 20s, and as I sat on my couch in front of my TV, flipping through the channels and looking for I didn't know what, there it was. "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" was on TV Land, late 90s small-hours refuge for the depressed and lonely. I watched it, hoping to feel for just a moment as I felt when I was a hopeful and happy 6-year-old.

I fell asleep on the couch that night, probably halfway through a third episode of the overnight MTM marathon that I'd happen to stumble upon, feeling a little better, and not just because I had remembered for a moment what it felt like to be six years old.  It was because the show, to my surprise, was REALLY funny.

Mary Tyler Moore was already famous for her portrayal of Laura Petrie on the very popular "Dick Van Dyke Show," and she could easily have turned her own program into a showcase for herself.  Instead, she found the funniest and most talented actors and actresses--Ed Asner, Ted Knight, Valerie Harper, Betty White, Cloris Leachman--and put the spotlight on them rather than herself, often playing the straight woman to Valerie Harper's wisecracking Rhoda, Ted Knight's buffoonish anchorman, and Betty White's promiscuous Happy Homemaker.  Even the minor characters, especially Rhoda's mother, played by the gifted Nancy Walker, were brilliantly cast.   Yes, the show was culturally significant and the character was groundbreaking, but "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" was also one of the greatest TV comedies ever.

*****

Right now feels like less than a hopeful and wide-open time for women. The rise of radical Islamic fundamentalism in countries everywhere from Western Europe to the Philippines has created conditions of intolerable oppression for women and girls.  Meanwhile, privileged women like me; white, middle-class American women who don't want for a thing, have only to contend with the fact that a self-proclaimed uninvited p&%$@-grabber is now the President of the United States.  All of this, though, will pass.  I'm sure of it.  I'm still hopeful and optimistic.  Love is all around.

Current events

I work from home.  When my husband is at work and my kids are at school, the house is sometimes too quiet, so I keep the TV on, on low volume, because the background noise is helpful.  I'm usually tuned to MSNBC, alternating occasionally with the local all-news channel.

Even though I don't actually watch most of the time (I usually sit with my back to the TV), the talk still enters my brain, which means that I know more about politics right now than I necessarily want to.  I was shocked last week when my husband, commenting on the New Hampshire primary results, asked me who John Kasich was.   He's an intelligent and reasonably well-informed person, but he'd never heard of John Kasich; didn't even know that he was running.  

Right now, MSNBC and every other news network are covering the death of Antonin Scalia and the emerging fight over whether or not the President should appoint a replacement and whether or not the Senate will allow a nomination to come to a vote.  Anyone who wonders why most Americans now hate both parties needs only to watch five minutes' worth of Scalia coverage.  The poor guy's body probably isn't even cold yet, and the politicking is fully underway. 

I'm on both sides of this issue.  As a pro-life person, I don't necessarily want to see another Obama appointee to the Supreme Court; however, I also don't think that the Supreme Court is actually that important.  The misbegotten idea of abortion as some sort of human right took hold over a period of 50 years or so.  People who still believe that abortion is anything except a horror for women and for humanity aren't going to change their minds because of a court decision or a political fiat.   

On the other hand, it seems pretty clear that President Obama, who has almost a year more to serve, should appoint Scalia's replacement. It is also manifestly and transparently obvious that if the current lame-duck President were a Republican and not a Democrat, then Cruz, Kasich, Rubio and the rest of them would be vigorously defending that President's right to appoint the next Justice, and would be asserting his Constitutional responsibility to do so with dispatch.  And, in that very same hypothetical case, Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren and the rest of THAT gang would be expressing fake outrage over the supposed power grab of a sitting President making a judicial appointment and would similarly threaten to delay, filibuster, or otherwise stymie the process.

I don't remember exactly when the term "litmus test" began to be used in discussions of judicial appointees' views on abortion.  Sometime in the 1980s, I think.  I also don't recall having heard of a litmus test applied to any judicial nominee's views on eminent domain, say, or Fifth Amendment rights, or interstate commerce, or even gun rights.  Only for abortion, it seems, are both sides, but especially the pro-choice side, so determined to try to guess the potential candidates' views to be sure that they'll vote the right way.  On the pro-choice side, I think, it's because there's no other way to sustain the whole monstrous lie--that abortion is about women's rights, or that a fetus is anything other than a human being--than to prop it up with phony "settled law," ideally by appointing young judges who are likely to sit on the bench for the next 20 years or so.  Then keep sharpening the "choice" and "war on women" rhetoric during that 20 years, and hopefully, you'll fool just enough people that the next generation will produce politicians who will do what's necessary to sustain the lie for the next 20 years or so after that. 

Right now, on social media, smug pro-choicers are circulating a meme that reads something like "Justice Scalia expressed a wish to be cremated; however, women will need to meet first to decide if that's what's really best for his body." Hilarious!  Gotcha!  I really NAILED those idiot pro-lifers this time; they can't argue with that!  Except for this: Justice Scalia is already dead, and abortion, of course involves two bodies, not just one, both of which are alive, at least until Planned Parenthood gets hold of them.  Right-wing social media friends are just as bad; they're flooding Facebook with rumors that Scalia was murdered by nefarious pro-choicers and gay rights activists.  Sleep with one eye open, Justices Thomas, Alito, and Roberts, because I suppose you're all next. 

And that leads right back to what's wrong with politics right now.  Nothing can be solved with politics, because politics is about nothing but politics, and no one on either side actually cares about truth.  The people in power care only about holding onto power, and the fight is about only the fight.  The politicians all know this and they have known it for some time.  Unfortunately for them, people are beginning to catch on.  Unfortunately for all of us, the people who are catching on are in reaction mode; nothing else can explain the rise of Donald Trump.  Maybe it will take two years, or maybe five, but it's entirely likely that sometime in the not-all-that-distant future, the debate over Supreme Court appointments and filibusters will seem quaintly nostalgic, because the Constitution and the United States as we know them now won't even exist.   Or maybe I just need to get out more. 

Interior design

I just saw a televised tour of El Chapo's hideout.  It looked like a 27-year-old software engineer's apartment.  White walls, unadorned by anything other than a wall-mounted flat screen TV; beige, builder's grade carpet; a brown microfiber living-room suite, with the couch, love seat, and overstuffed chair pushed up against the bare white walls; and a bedroom furnished with a bare mattress and box-spring set, with a pile of pillows and blankets that looked like they'd been recently slept on or under.  Pizza boxes, newspapers, and DVDs were strewn about.  Minus the bullet holes, the place looked like it belongs in a garden apartment complex in Reston.

Maybe El Chapo should consider a career change.  Defense contractors in the DMV are always hiring engineers. He'd have to settle for $100,000 or so a year, rather than $100 million, but his apartment would be just as nice as the one he just vacated, and he'd be able to leave home once in a while without a disguise.  And it's not likely that Sean Penn would come around pestering him, either.  Something to think about.

One of these things is not like the other

I'm reading one of those books of funny essays written by popular bloggers.  This one focuses mostly on modern suburban motherhood; the author is a renegade who just doesn't fit in with the Botoxed, superfit, Pinterest-pinning, organic/gluten-free, hypercompetitive, pumpkin-spice-latte supermoms who are apparently EVERYWHERE in the town where she lives, sharing homemade muffins and passive-aggression with the lesser mothers (like the author) who can barely manage to (Fill in the blank: put a meal on the table, comb their hair, shower, wear non-stretchy clothes, etc.)

It's funny, I suppose.  As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author.  She's one of my people.  But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do.  I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.

There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the  bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods.  It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them.  But of course, we have the words on our side.  Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities.  Who's the mean girl in this scenario?

*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week.  Rick Perry was a guest.  I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another.  Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him.  Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate.  Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18.  At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written.  He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."

It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to.  He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug.  It was just something that had happened.  Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.

*****

There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician.  I'm not going to bother looking for it, though.  Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists.  I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything.   Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics.  Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring.  A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies.  A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner.  It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.

Tous les jours

It's been so long.  In yet another supreme irony, I am now paid actual money for my writing skills, and I hardly ever write anything.  I've given up my amateur status, I suppose.  I'm going to return once again to daily writing, and whatever ends up on this page will be published.  Well, not WHATEVER.  I'll correct misspellings and incorrect uses of the semicolon.*

On Sunday, I was on my couch watching the last episode of "Mad Men."  I'd summarily dismissed the DB Cooper theory, but the Coke theory had seemed plausible, even likely.  So I liked the ending, and I scoff at the ridiculous idea that it exposed Don as completely cynical.  If advertising is intrinsically cynical, then so is all of commerce and by extension, almost all human endeavor.

And that's all, apparently, that I have to say about that.  I miss "Mad Men" already, both the show in particular and the absorption in a story in general.  I'm sure there's some other serial drama that I could become attached to available on Netflix, but the contemporaneous shared experience would be lacking, and that's the best part.  Binge-watching has very little appeal for me; even if I could overcome my belief that it's wrong to binge on anything, I just wouldn't have the time.

Memorial Day Weekend: Two days until the pool opens, five days before swim team practice begins, and just over a month before I start to panic about the fast-approaching end of a long-awaited summer.  Hyphens: even better than semicolons.  Discuss among yourselves.

* As if either of these would ever happen in the first place.  So unlikely.  Still, anything is possible.

Gray Flannel Infinity Scarf

I'm the opposite of an early adopter.  When I jump on a bandwagon, it's already nearly empty, its former occupants having long since moved onto more current things.  I sent my first text message in 2009, which was also when I joined Facebook.  My sister gave me an infinity scarf for my birthday.  I'd ridiculed the silly things for three or four years, and then I tried one on and what do you know?  I liked it. I'd be right on trend now, if this was 2011.  Open-front cardigans are another current favorite; I bought my first one a few months ago, just in time for them to be over.

So that's why I'm now watching the first season of "Mad Men" (I am current, though, on "Portlandia".)  I'm all agog.  The period details are fun to look at, and I'm also interested in the social history aspect of the show, although I don't really know how accurate it is.  The sexism is so exaggerated that it's almost hard to take seriously. Not having been there, of course, I have to take pop-culture interpretations of everyday life in past eras on faith.  Maybe the sexism was just as bad as the show depicts.  On the other hand, most of the women at Sterling Cooper, if they had any interest in watching football with their husbands on Sundays, wouldn't have had to watch semi-nude dancing girls on the sidelines.  And can you imagine Joan Holloway or Betty Draper participating in "The Bachelor"? The Sexual Revolution: AWESOME for Women.

I digress.

I think that what interests me the most is the character of Don Draper as sort of a human wrecking ball and lightning rod in one.  Most of the characters are believable and complex on their own, but almost everything that happens to them is a result of their collision with Don; some of them pursue him and some of them are thrown up against him, but I can't think of a single character who isn't defined to some extent in relationship to Don Draper.

I'm not watching now; I gave up Netflix for Lent (I gave up crunchy snacks, sweets,and buttered bread, too; Netflix was to make sure that my sacrifice is about more than losing a few excess pounds; never mind the fact that I've given up sweets, crunchy snacks, and buttered bread for six weeks every year for the past four years, and I haven't lost an ounce as a result--damn middle age) so I need to catch up from about the mid-point of season 4.  My prediction is that Don's past will catch up with him and that he'll be tried as a deserter, but that he'll be saved by post-Vietnam popular disillusionment with American foreign policy--no jury will convict him.   Whatever happens, it will be nice to be current on pop culture, just for a change.